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Sweet baby jebus how I love the face pages! It’s amazing what kind of stuff people put up on Facebook. I have an old work acquaintance who is such a miserable bastard. His posts consist of one of three things: where he’s working out, how he’s in love, or how he’s broken hearted. And all of his posts have a sad, drama, woe-is-me ring to them. Half the time you can count on one of these three responses:

**blink blink**

**stare**

**eye roll**

It amazes me what he posts for the world for him to see. Friends, family, colleagues, his boss. You really can tell a lot about a person by what he writes. I’ve considered blocking him from my feed, but then I get a gem like this and I can’t bring myself to do it…

It’s such a liberating feeling when you realize that the shitty person you cried over for 5 months is actually a pathetic loser who projects his own issues on to you while he can’t even face you like a man or treat you with the respect and dignity you deserve, and you know how many things that person is fucking up on in his own life and you laugh when you think he told you you were a piece of shit……thank you for liberation and Karma

God bless Facebook, I love almost everything about it. I can bore people with my mundane updates, stalk ex-boyfriends, keep tabs on new girlfriends of ex-boyfriends, judge others, kill time, remind people of my birthday, etc. Those face pages are just wonderful. And of course there is a down side: zero interest in knowing how many gems someone got in the latest stupid game, and I’m over watching the ALS ice water challenge (I get it. Good cause. Over it. Awareness raised. Let’s move on.), I don’t want to see shitty pictures of the bland meal you ate either, and a special fuck you to people who only share articles/videos. Fuck you. For reals.

Never know how to handle invites from people who I don’t care for. Most of the time I want to reject them, but feel obligated to accept if I work with them. Such is the case for this one extremely bitter complainer at work. I accepted her invite, spent two months hating every post she made, and so decided to hide her. Joy in my life immediately went up.

This morning she sent me an invitation to a jewelry party she’s having. The thought of having to spend time outside of work (and not getting paid for it) is painful. Am debating how to respond to the invite while not damaging the work relationship.

How about this for the RSVP: Thank you for the invitation, but I’d rather:

At Widgets and Co. we spend a whole lot of time talking about the role of a supervisor and how micro managing is bad. The worst thing a boss can do is look over someone’s shoulder while telling them how to do their job. Scratch that, maybe it’s not the worst thing to do. Touching your people inappropriately, and threatening not to promote them unless they touch your wiener (with the back of their throat), are way worse. Still, micro managing is pretty bad.

Part of what I do in my job is try to figure out how help people be stronger managers. Which is somewhat ironic since I myself have never been one, but whatevs. There’s a lot of blah blah blah on how to inspire others, and that by inspiring other people they’ll want to follow you (thereby maybe wanting your wiener to touch the back of their throat).

Recently, my ex-boss (the hot one) turned 38. I sent hi a text message telling him he was still doable (or at least wishing him a happy birthday). His response was nothing but pure inspiration. Take a look…

Yes! You are the first to wish me a happy b-day. Even though it’s at an ungodly early time, I am up and ready to party. As an older man, please allow me to share some wisdom: if it’s yellow let it mellow, if it’s brown flush it down.

His wisdom has touched me in so many ways…but not in the back of my throat.

The terms “diet” and “vacation” do not go together. People who travel rarely worry about dieting. Rather it’s more of a “fuck it. I’m on vacation, I can eat an entire pie if I want to,” mentality. You know it’s true. When was the last time you were away and you turned down the extra drink or said no to dessert? Of all of the places I’ve ever traveled, Australia is the place that has the most delicious food. Living there for six months gave me the time to eat like the world was coming to an end, so it’s no wonder that I gained 20 pounds. None of the clothes that I took with me fit when I brought them home, I even had to buy legitimate fat pants – from a fat pants store. Not a proud moment.

You know what seriously sucks about getting fatter? Seeing the number/letter on the tag in your clothes go up a size or two. Just knowing that I have to buy an XL instead of an L, or a 14 instead of a 12 (and that’s still a tight squeeze) makes me want to cry. My initial reaction was just to cry into a glass of wine and help myself to another cupcake – not helpful. New strategy in place: back to weight watchers, and back to investing in Spanx and other shapers. On the bright side it’s not like anyone is going to catch me wearing them because it’s been about a half a century since anyone has seen me naked.

For those of you who don’t know what a slimmer is, it’s basically an item of clothing that sucks all of your fat in. There are all kinds you can buy, and the one I chose was kind of like a tank top, a super tight tank top. The beauty of using something like a slimmer is that it evens out all those lumps and bumps and you’re able to fit into clothes without looking like a giant sausage. But it’s important to make a smart choice with the slimmer you buy, because if it doesn’t fit right it will do nothing nice for your fat rolls. Instead it will squeeze you in all of the wrong places and make your fat pop out in even more unsexy ways than if you weren’t wearing it at all.

Two nights ago I went shopping and was psyched to find a Tory Burch dress I could pretty much squeeze into. Yes it accentuated my lumps and bumps, but with a shaper/slimmer that sucker looked gooooood! Found a slimmer tried the dress back on, and bought both. Yesterday morning I put on my new slimmer, wrapped myself in my hot new dress, and rolled out the door knowing that if I ran into any of my secret boyfriends they’d notice my total hotness.

One tiny little problem…about 10 minutes after sitting down the bottom of the slimmer would begin to roll up towards my middle thereby making my stomach squeeze out of them bottom and making it look like I had been cut and half. Not a cute look. Know what I found this out? Half way to work. Did I go back and change? Nope. Instead I thought, “if I just pull the bottom down lower, it won’t roll back up.”

Did that work?

It sure as shit did not.

As long as I just stood and did not move, the outfit worked. The second I started walking, sat down, took a deep breath, or blinked the fucking thing would roll up and shameful things happened to my body. Each time I’d have to find a way to get to the bathroom and pray to god that I wouldn’t see anyone I knew on my way. No joke, I went to the bathroom 10 times yesterday. 10 freaking times.

So you know what I did? I went to my friends’ house for dinner and confessed my dirty little secret with the slimmer and how horrible the whole entire day had been. And I told them this while I was eating three scoops of ice cream.

You know who should be punched in the mouth? People who schedule 5:00 PM meetings on a Tuesday afternoon. People who make you drive to an entirely different location so you can meet them, and then cancel the meeting 10 minutes after you have arrived only they’ve neglected to tell you or the three other people who have shown up to the meeting. In fact, they decide to only tell one person that instead they’ll push it back to September.

Such people should be punched in their mouths.

Fuck you, I say. Fuck you in your stupid face.

On the bright side, this was the first meeting in my new capacity and I had zero fucking clue what I was doing. Met a few new dudes, one of them who has been immediately added to the secret boyfriend list, the other who is very funny and is now telling people I’ve served a small prison sentence. Good times, good times.

Six months. Six blissful months in Australia and now I have returned to ‘Merica. Yes, I saw kangaroos, and koalas. No, I did not meet Crocodile Dundee, or make shrimp on the barbie. Yes, I met someone. No, it won’t last forever. Yes, I made out with him outside my hotel. No, I did not touch his penis. Yes, I had secret boyfriends. No, I did not ruin any marriages.

So back to work and back to boring old sex-less life in the USA.

[insert sad trombone music here]

Really the only good thing about being back is I’m reunited with one of my secret boyfriends. So secret he doesn’t know about it. And happily married. Of course he is. Because every dude I meet is either married, a douche bag, married and a douche bag, or single for some reason other than being a douche bag. Anyway, so Bow Tie was sitting in my cubicle today and had just finished explaining to me why he doesn’t wear a wedding ring (it’s not because he cheats), when he blurted out, “Where’s Kate Spade?”

Not a question you hear everyday from a straight dude.

“This, Kate Spade?” I asked him while showing him my bag. “No, the blue dress,” he responded.

Ah, yes. The blue dress. The blue dress I purchased last October before heading off to Europe for a month. The blue Kate Spade dress that I got an excellent deal on. The blue dress that sucks everything in and makes me look hot. The one he commented on every time he saw me in it.

“That’s a winter dress. It’s wool. I can’t wear it in summer time.” People, that’s a lie. It’s not so much that I can’t wear it in summer. It’s that I can’t wear if I want to zip the thing because I gained (no joke) 20 pounds in Australia and went up 2 dress sizes since I bought it.

Fuck.

FUCK!

I have two months to lose 20 pounds so I can fit back into that damned blue fucking dress.

Bye bye french fries, and chips, and cupcakes, and wine every night, and fried foods, and chocolates, and lollies, and pasta dishes, and 4 lattes a day, and Jesus no wonder I’m so fat.

My poor, poor inner thighs are chafed from walking all over town yesterday in the hot hot heat. Clear sign that my fatness is getting in my way of a good time. The only thing that seems to help is taking the cookie I’m about to eat and rubbing it on my inner thighs before popping it in my mouth. I was out half the day with that friend of a friend who I wrote about yesterday. There is only one word to describe her: skank.

“Have you ever done drugs before?” This is what she asked me within an hour of meeting her. “Not really my scene,” I told her. Which is totally true. We were sitting in a window seat at this cute little cafe. Me feeling fat, her dressed like she had just come in from a run, and her “friend” who hadn’t been home since the night before and was nursing a terrible hangover. That’s when she announced to me that she had tried drugs for the first time the night before. I thought to myself, “ah, how cute, she smoked a joint for her first time.” That’s when she leans over to her “friend” from last night and asks, “what was it I had?” My jaw about hit the floor when I heard him say, “cocaine and MDMA.” Seriously? You’ve never tried drugs in your life and you go for that heavy shit? What the fuck is wrong with you??

Know what the really fucked up part was (as if that wasn’t fucked up enough), she got the drugs from complete strangers.

Um, really? You took drugs from strangers? Are you kidding me right now? Second, you’re now telling a complete stranger (me) about this? What the fuck is wrong with you? It was at that moment that I realized that she was a complete fucking idiot. Yes, I somewhat suspected it when she introduced me to her Aussie friend who had beautiful blue-green eyes and smelled like last night’s whiskey. And maybe my suspicious were heightened when she told me that they’d only slept an hour because they’d been out partying last night. But who am I to judge (other than the world’s judge-iest of judgers)? Young people today like to party. He was 24, she apparently had just turned 30. There’s a big fucking difference between 40 and 30 – and that lifestyle is just not for me.

So there she is telling me about her experience with drugs while I’m thinking “when can I leave.” When the dude went off to the bathroom she then announces to me that they made out the night before, they ended up naked together, and he had wanted to go down on her but she kept telling him no. You see, she had zero desire in hooking up with him, and had her period. But did she tell him? Nope. She just went ahead and kept making out with him. Whatever. Then she said, “it’s not like I even flirt with him, I don’t know why he thinks I’d hook up with him.”

Um, really? Maybe he thinks that because you took drug with strangers, took your clothes off and rubbed your buddy all over his, and then kept your hand on his thigh the entire time we were at lunch. I’m thinking that sends a pretty strong signal.

Instead of coming up with a really creative excuse, like I had just developed the bubonic plague or I had to get home in time to feed my pet koala, I agreed to drinks at a few rooftop bars. Why? Why did I agree to this? Mainly because I’m part idiot on my dad’s side. So off we go to a few bars, and at the second one she strikes up a conversation with a few dudes. Hot. These dudes were hot. Let me remind you that she hasn’t showered, probably is coated in the semen of the guy who we were with, and has only slept an hour. Know what ends up happening? We all end up at a table together.

About an hour in I ditched them to come home and hang out in my apartment, detox from her skankiness, and shower off the dirty. Later that night she messages me that she made out with a guy that she met that afternoon in front of the dude she hooked up with last night.

No fucking wonder that everyone in the world thinks American girls are stupid sluts.